Soda and Weed
by cheddarbiscuit
Summary: "So, what do we do, old chum? In the middle of a battle, light one up and pass it around?" A novelization of Nostalgia, making good use of the term "Artistic License."
1. Prolouge

cheddarbiscuit presents:

Soda and Weed.

Summary: "So, what do we do old chum? In the middle of the battle, light one up and pass it around?" A novelization of Nostalgia, making good use of the term 'Artistic License.'

Disclaimer: I WILL NOT BE BLAMED FOR THAT, DON'T EVEN ACT LIKE YOU CAN.

* * *

Q: Why is it called 'Soda and Weed?'

A: I'm glad you asked. This work _could_ be called _Nostalgia: A companion collection._ But they just had to use the terms 'heal bottle' and 'heal leaf' instead of regular old potion and herb. For the life of me, I cannot understand. Potion and Herb are not copyrighted. They never will be. They sound so much more professional that heal bottle and heal leaf, and they are easier to type. But, Heal bottles are described as sweet (like soda), and heal leaves are described as bitter. I am no druggie, but I am pretty sure weed is bitter.

So, I'm using _Soda and Weed_.

Besides, it sounds cooler than _Potion and Herb_. And it stands out. And while there is little to no recreational use of weed, it conjures up an image of the main cast sitting around getting stoned while drinking soda.

And let's face it. That's awesome.

* * *

Prologue:

The Tower of Babble was cold, if you could believe that. Maybe it was just because Fiona was frightened and trembling with fear, maybe because the large chamber was in fact rather chilly. She could not think enough to sort it out on her own right now. She was not thinking about much, really, just aimless questions. Who was she, really, this man in armor seemed to know, but no matter how many times she asked, he just laughed and told her to just do as he told her, and she would never be hurt.

She generally went for the path of least resistance, because she did like remaining unhurt.

But then this whole 'Tower of Babble' thing had happened and she was seriously reconsidering. She got bad vibes, she could not understand it. As she walked up the stairs, two black-clad figures behind her, and two ahead, and a man in armor just beyond them, she was seriously considering jumping into the center of the room, and plummeting downward until she hit the floor. It would probably kill her. It might just break her legs and made her really, _really_ miserable.

And they would probably just drag her back up the stairs and make her do what they wanted _anyway_, if she remained alive. So, even if she looked over the edge and it looked mighty tempting, she did as she was told and kept walking up the spiral staircase to the door at the end. But she _knew_ the man in armor was planning something horrible.

His name was Carmine, for anyone who was curious. He had red hair, blue eyes that were a little green, and he did not always wear armor. Most of the time he just wore a casual suit, he only wore armor of occasions where he was certain he was in some sort of mortal danger. Fiona looked around the room. She did not see any signs that they were in physical danger.

Perhaps he just used it for ceremonial purposes?

She hardly knew him. All she did know, with any certainty, was that he was holding her hostage. She had been under his wing and in his iron fist for as long as she could remember, but the two had hardly spoken to each other. He seemed to need something from her. She did not really know what, yet.

The room had no more doors aside from the one they entered. Two cabal agents walked forward to cover the back to corners of the room, and the two behind her forced to enter fully, and they escorted her forward behind Carmine.

The party leader walked boldly into the center of the room, where a pedestal stood. She looked at the pedestal and wondered, is this what I am for? On the pedestal was a fragment of something, it looked to be made of pure, but slightly dull, gold. Whatever it was a fragment of was probably circular in shape, judging from the curved edge and border around the fragment. It seemed to have some sort of other worldly power, because it floated and rotated in midair just above the pedestal.

"So this is the piece to the gate we seek."

Carmine reached out for it, but he had spoken too soon. The fragment glowed for a second and stopped turning. There was a bright like, a small crack like a tiny thunderbolt, or a whip, and Carmine staggered back, swearing loudly. Little sparks danced up the metal on his arm to his chest, but stopped quickly enough. Fiona could smell burnt skin and fabric, and Carmine took a moment to compose himself. He tore off his gauntlet glove and the lower armor on his arm, rolling up his sleeve.

There were tiny little burns here and there, and holes burnt in his sleeve, but no major damage, not that Fiona could see.

"Damn!" he swore, "Bring the girl."

The two black-clad figures that had remained as her escort were slow to move.

"Bring her, you fools!" Carmine said, "Now."

They staggered into action, stiffly moving forward. They scared away by the magic, and yet compelled forward by the authority in his voice. They pushed her forward, too, and eventually, she began to walk on her own, just as scared and awestruck as they were, and so her joins were stone and her bones were honey. She felt about to collapse, and she was terrified as he clamped his burned hand down her wrist and held it to the rotating segment of stone.

"What is it?"

"There is no need for you to know."

But, she felt like she _did_ know already, she just could not remember for the life of her. What was it? Something told her it was bad, after all, it had hurt Carmine. What if it rejected her, too? What if it burned her hand off completely?

"No!" she said, pulling back on his arm so hard she feared her shoulder would be torn apart, "No!"

With a firm grip on her wrist and another strong tug forward, he brought her towards the pedestal so that her fingers brushed the golden-hued stone. It did not reject her. It did not spurn or shock her. It was neither burning hot nor bitter cold to her touch. It seemed to be the exact same temperature as her fingers. Very, very ordinary. It was unyielding, as stone should be. It stopped turning when her fingers touched the raised hieroglyphs, and some unknown, powerful magic lifted it from the ground. Fiona was certain she should know what it was. Its power seemed so warm and familiar.

She seemed to be close to some answers now. Who was she? She pondered for a split second? Her identity was like fine white cloud for a moment, but when she touched the stone, something came back to her, or at least, something started to come back to her. It turned her way, briefly, but just before she could make eye contact with her past life, a man's voice shouted, "Hold it!"

Carmine's hand relaxed on her wrist, and as he turned, he pulled her hand away from the stone. There was a flourish of black cloth as one of his inferiors tore off his black robe and revealed himself. Fiona took much longer comprehending the situation than Carmine did.

"Gilbert Brown—"

And then the man moved. Carmine stammered, as if his line had been interrupted as the man tackled her and separated her from the stone, and the answers about her past. He kept the two of them upright, and skidded to a halt just in front of the door. Fiona did not say anything. She was unsure of what to think.

"You won't get away!"

The man took out a pistol and fired it. Fiona was exited and terrified for a split second, because she had never seen a man killed with a gun before.

But he did not hit Carmine.

He missed. By a mile.

Instead of hitting the man in armor's completely visible head, this man—this 'Gilbert Brown'—hit a stone eye on the other side of the room. Fiona was completely baffled for a moment, because he started to turn to leave after that. Fiona was a bit confused and bewildered, but she knew—she _knew _that turning her back on an opponent was completely silly, and she knew very well that a revolver that side had about six bullets in it. There were five men. She was against killing, but—

She heard stone grating against stone, and two great doors started to close in front of them. It was very slow, slow enough for the men in black and their leader to escape and follow them, easily.

But Carmine was a horribly logical man.

He threw a sword.

Not even _his_ sword, Fiona observed as Mister Brown pulled it out of the wall. Carmine had an impressive broadsword, that if thrown properly (and Carmine had demonstrated that he _could_ throw it properly) was capable of taking a man's head off at twenty paces. He had thrown a very plain sword. And, not surprisingly, he missed, too. Unfortunately, he was not able to de-activate the trap that Mister Brown had sprung.

"Damn. [1.]" He hissed, "I missed."

He started to step forward and he drew his own sword, as if to fight them, but Mister Brown would not let him have that chance. He grabbed Fiona's hand and guided her down the spiral staircase with a quick, "Come on!"

She heard the scraping stone come to a halt and heard what sounded like metal buckling and cracking. She turned around briefly to see that Carmine had stopped the closing doors with his own sword, and was stepping back so his underlings could run through first. She let go of Mister Brown's hand to gather up her long dress and run after him, her bare feet lightly tapping against the cold stone floor.

"Thank you so—" the dark-haired girl started to say "Oh! Look—"

Two more members of the black-clad soldiers stood in front of them, both with machine guns. Before they could turn fully and fire a round, Mister Brown hooked an arm around her waist and jumped off of the edge of the stairway. The two plummeted down, leaving their pursuers and Carmine far behind, but now Fiona wondered—just a little, as was expected—if falling, crashing and probably dying against the floor was really worth it. She closed her eyes and screamed in fear.

When they were stopped abruptly, it was not because of the floor, but a grappling hook, which Mister Brown had taken from a bag at his belt and had attached to the railing of the spiral staircase, and they swung easily back onto the stairs, and resumed running downwards. That was quite impressive! He must be paid to do these things, because no mere hobbyist would dare take such risks! She stopped for a moment to look back and see how far behind Carmine had been left, but for a man in armor, he was very quick!

She continued to follow him, because the alternative was returning to Carmine, who never spoke a word to her and never gave her any answered. Maybe, just maybe, this man would.

"Why—" she panted as she ran, "Did you help me?"

He did not answer. He just looked back, saw that she was lagging behind, and tugged her along to keep her in step with him.

She tightened her grip on her skirt and followed her rescuer to a small red airship. It was not state of the art, but it _had_ been... At one point. It was a zeppelin, the kind perfected in Germany many years ago. It was already running and ready to sail away, with a single rope tethering it. There was a ladder reaching up to the side, which he urged Fiona up first.

"Hurry up and get on."

Her skirt snagged on her foot, and she nearly fell, but she heard Carmine and Mister Brown exchanging words and blows behind her, and she steadied her resolve, climbing up the ladder. It was difficult getting over the railing in her heavy skirt, but otherwise, she tumbled onto the deck without a hitch, and she was up again, as quickly as she could be. She felt the ship lurch suddenly, which knocked her off her feet again. Curious, she went over to the railing and saw as she looked down that the ship was flying off at a dizzying height.

With Gilbert Brown holding tightly to the rope that had kept the ship in place. Her stomach turned for a moment, because she knew full well what happened when someone fell from such a dizzying height.

"Open fire!" she heard Carmine shout faintly, "Don't let them get away!"

Her stomach turned again. She hated all this excitement!

Gilbert set the rope swinging, making him slide back and forth and slam against the ships side with one painful metallic _bang!_ After another, but it made him a difficult target to hit. Any bullet that managed to reach him was easily deflected with the flat of his borrowed sword.

Unsure of why, (she knew full well she could not reach him and he could not reach her) she leaned down as far as she could and called out to him, "Take my hand."

He looked up at her for a moment, and was distracted, so his arm fell, the sword useless for just a second as he considered climbing up the rope to reach her. But she had called out too early, though the Cabal soldiers could not properly hit him, they could hit _something_ and just before the ship was safely out of range, they _did_ hit something. One moment, he was there, about to drop the sword so he could climb up, they next he was gone, a charred half of rope the only proof he had ever been there.

"Mister Brown!" she called out as he vanished into the mountains and mists below, "Mister Brown!"

But he was gone. Probably, by now, he was a broken pile on the earth. What a valiant rescue attempt, only to end so tragically. What would she do? She looked back towards the tower of Babble and saw that Carmine was boarding his own airship, preparing to pursue her. What could she do? What could she do?

She backed away from the railing, and the ship was hit by a strong gust of wing, knocking her away from the tower and into the higher clouds, lost to the world. She waited on the deck, as if Carmine's ship would suddenly appear of the grey-white around her, but he never did. She emerged into the light again, and she seemed to be miles away from where she had started drifting.

And so Fiona drifted.

It was breathtaking at first, leaning over the railing and watching the land sweep by, the birds fly along beside her, and drift with the wind. Then she hit turbulence and was nearly knocked out, and the illusion of beauty was gone and Fiona realized just how much danger she was truly in.

She had been out here for hours, and she could feel the tingle of sunburn on her face and arms. She needed to get out of the sun and find a way to at least attempt to steer the giant airship. But when she tried to get into the bridge to steer the airship, and found out that it was locked. There was no spare key anywhere. She was stuck out side to weather the elements, sleep under the stars and cower when monsters attacked the ship.

And so Fiona drifted.

... And drifted...

... And...

... drifted...

* * *

[1.] Artistic license. I changed some things (like Carmine stopping the doors with his sword… Which I actually think is some form of broadsword-flamberge-axe lovechild) and the script is not going to be word for word. I write better dialogue than those people!

I am sooooooo glad there is finally an FFN section for Nostalgia! I have an excuse to write this now!


	2. Chapter 1

Soda and Weed

(Disclaimed.)

I was going to let that prologue sit there for a while, but this chapter was already pretty much written, and I could not sleep, so I just finished it up to post it.

* * *

Q: cheddarbiscuit, it seem like you have some sort of... Problem... with the game, and yet you're still writing fic for it. Why?

A: You're mistaken. The game was amusing. I friggen love it. But it has little to no replay value. The characters deserve better.

* * *

Chapter one:

_London, England._

The Browns were waiting for a telegram.

The Browns were waiting for a telegram that would probably never come, by the looks of it. Edward sat down on the couch his elbow resting on the armrest and his chin resting on his hand. He drummed his fingers on his knee, and waited.

_I wonder where Dad is._ He thought for the umpteenth time that morning, but he could not answer that question. His Dad was rarely home. He could be gone for month on end, at least, staying as he walked towards the airship dock, 'Oh, I'm going to America for a while.' And then in a telegram a few weeks later he would tell them, 'I've heard of something on Ayer's rock I want to check out.' Then another telegram would arrive, 'I'll be in Siberia for a week or two, then I'm going to France maybe I'll pop by and take a breather.'

He never popped by for a breather.

Still, on and on the messages would go, and each time Eddie would walk over to a map and stick a pin on a giant map on his bedroom wall, tracking his father all over the world. He may never be home, but he did at least check in once every week or three. He had gone five weeks without a telegram now, he had never done that before. Never.

Eddie frowned. His Dad had missed a lot, because he liked adventuring. Sometimes, Eddie could not help but mutter to himself, _He likes adventuring more than me. I think he likes even more than Mom._

But that hurt to say, so he did not. Every time he so much as thought it, he would change the subject as quickly as he could, and he would say, with just as much conviction, _I don't need Dad here. I've gotten by jolly well without the old chap. Mum's enough for me. Mum's always been enough for me. It's not like I have to share her with brothers or sisters._

His frown deepened.

Of course, brothers and sisters would have been nice, too. That way, when he played pretend in Old Maid Beatrice's back yard, he would not feel so terribly lonely when he stepped back and seriously evaluated the reasons behind hunting for lost civilizations in her rosebushes. He gave an exasperated sigh and slouched on the couch, turning his head to his mother, who stood frozen, looking out the back window. She had always spared as much time as she could, but there were always her investments to look after. She did not work, after all, she invested her share the reward money, and investments had to be looked after, just like Old Maid Beatrice's back yard. When she was not giving him her undivided attention, she was given her stocks her undivided attention.

And now, her undivided attention was on their back balcony.

Eddie sighed again, slouching further on the couch, looking at the fire place, empty. It was the middle of summer, after all. A glass screen was over it, and he could see his reflection. He was blonde, blue eyed. Everyone insisted he looked like his father, but Eddie knew that was not true. His father had brown hair, and brown eyes. Eddie looked nothing like him. Nothing at all.

He got to his feet and paced the room, where portrait after portrait hung. He stopped in front of one of them. If he looked like anyone, it was his maternal grandfather. He had been a soft-spoken blonde man, but he had been an real-estate tycoon. Not the most glamorous profession. It was obvious who a young boy would rather be compared to, the dashing adventurer, his own father. He barely even remembered his mother's father, let alone wanted to be like him.

He continued pacing, and this time stopped in front of a family photograph. It took them hours to get his father to consent to sitting there for a photograph that only took a few seconds to take. He was such a restless man. It was worrisome.

He should be _glad_ his Dad was gone so much, really. It made the times he was home more important.

The doors opened at that point, and both of them turned towards the door, expecting, or at least hoping, to see Gilbert standing there, dusty and victorious, rewards his in pockets and a smile on his face. Edward's heart knotted for a second.

It was just their butler.

"Madam, Mr. Evans is here to see you."

"I see." Margaret said stiffly, "Let him in."

With a curt nod, the butler turned around and came back with Jim Evans, Gilbert's friend and agent. He was a round man, with a wide girth and a reddened bulbous nose. He was forever flabbergasted; forever speaking in a rush, with a pair of tiny spectacles perched upon his nose, and they seemed to pop off when he was too excited, when seemed to happen quite a bit. He was intelligent, though and was capable of drawing sharp conclusions, with impeccable instinct and a vast memory for geographical and cultural knowledge.

"M-Margaret, s-something has happened to G-gilbert."

Eddie could feel the wave of shock spread through the room, but she held her head up high as she walked towards him. She showed no sign of panic as said, "Calm down, Mister Evans, and try to explain calmly—"

But Mister Evans could not explain calmly, "Well you see Margaret and American naval ship was in the mid-Atlantic—" rushed out from under his drooping mustache quickly, then his blue-grey eyes found Eddie and said just as quickly, "No, no I can't. Not in front of Eddie."

"Jim, please, Eddie is Gilbert's son."

He was not convinced.

"If something has happened to his father, he has a right to know."

"Quite right." Jim said, "Quite right."

"Now, please, tell me what happened."

Mister Evans took off his spectacles and cleared his throat, his eyes shifting from Eddie to Margaret. He clearly did not want to tell her in front of Eddie, but he did anyway, after taking a calming breath and cleaning his glasses, "An American naval ship was doing a routine training exercise in the mid-Atlantic." He repeated himself, "And they found the Maverick. They found his ship."

"I see. And they wired over to inform us that he will be in New York until he can return home?"

"Gilbert..." Again, Mister Evans looked warily at Eddie, "Gilbert was not on the ship."

His mother did not say a word. Her eyes grew wide for a moment, and she looked ready to faint. Before she did, she sat down on the couch, her knuckles white as they clenched in her lap. The only real sign of panic was her rapid breathing and pale face. Eddie knelt down in front of her, waiting for some order, either to stay or to leave. She eventually spoke up, "There was no sign of him?"

"None."

There was more silence.

_It won't be so different without the old chap._ Eddie told himself, _You just won't get telegrams anymore, and he won't get reward money, but that won't be much of a setback, you'll see. Just stick a pin on your map every three weeks and you'll be fine._

"Was there any sort of clue as to what could have happened?"

"We—we don't know much." Mister Evans said, his eyes shifting from left to right. He fiddled with the chain of his pocket watch, "But it looked as if the ship were attacked. I'm afraid to say we can't determine who. We don't know where he was when he went missing, too, and the ship had obviously been drifting for days. I'm sorry, but—"

"Gilbert knows how to take care of himself." His mother's voice interrupted him, "We just have to find him."

"F-f-find him?" Mister Evans exclaimed. "It would take another adventurer, and you won't find one that will do it. Gilbert was the only one fool enough to travel the world, you know. There are sky pirates, and this new group he was investigating."

"New group?" Margaret asked, "Could they have had something to do with it?"

"I don't know, but they've been causing trouble everywhere. When rumor spreads that they captured or even... E-even _killed_ Gilbert, no adventurer in their right mind would—"

"I say!" Eddie exclaimed suddenly, getting to his feet. "Why don't I go?"

His mother gasped and stood up, "No, Eddie—"

"He's my father. I'll go." Eddie replied, "What's wrong with a son wanting to look for his Father? Someone jolly well should!"

"Nothing, Edward, dear." His mother replied, "But this is suicide, your father very well could have been _murdered_, and you're so young, you—"

"You're Mother's right, Eddie, we should leave this to a Licensed Adventurer."

"Smashing idea, Evan old boy [1.]. I'll become an adventurer. Yeah, just like my Dad."

"Eddie... Do you really...?"

They stared at him, awestruck and bewildered, and it was Mister Evans that spoke up first, "How, how just like your father. One you get an idea in your head, it bloody well won't get out, will it? If you are so keen on questing, you need to go to the Adventurer's Association in the main part of town and register yourself, but you'll have a devil of a time doing it, I tell you. I'll help in whatever way I can when you get your license, but not a moment before."

"All right then!"

"Right then. I'd best be off."

And he was off, though the double doors and out into the world. After a brief nod good-bye to his mother, and after picking up his sword from his room, Eddie followed suit, walking down the peaceful cobblestone streets of the west end, and into the main part of London. The distinction between the old, aristocratic charm and modern English society was exiting and bracing. He paused just a moment to look around himself, the fountain in the square, the stately, white buildings.

He set on his way again, onto the Adventurer's Association's London headquarters, which was right behind the fountain and beside the museum. How hard could this be, right? Probably not too difficult, after all, the paperwork would be easy enough, and they could not send him outside of London for any tests—and there were always tests, something was reported stolen at least once a week, and fresh adventurers were always the type to bring it in, and even then, there were always sewer rats, which reproduced like wildfire and could never be wiped out. That was the old fall back.

He shuddered. He hated rats.

He stopped in front of the building. The arched entry way lead to a courtyard, and that courtyard lead to the door way, which was perched atop a series of stairs, and sitting at the top of those stairs and frowning slight was a girl in a bright red wheelchair.

"Carlos, where _are_ you when I _need_ you?" she grumbled to herself as Eddie walked up.

"Excuse me—"

"Yes?" she asked him. She had a slight German accent, and was very pale, as one would expect from a sickly girl, but she did not seem to frail or weak, she carried herself straight, despite her handicap, and the only reason he was certain she could not walk was because of the white woolen blanket securely wrapped around her legs. As she looked at him, she raised a hand to shield her light, clear eyes from the sun. Eddie was confused for a moment. Was she an... Adventurer? They let anyone join, didn't they?

She stared intently at him, a little puzzled frown on her face.

"Can I help you?"

He had meant 'Can I help you get down the stairs?' but that was obvious not what she had though, because she said instead: "What?" as she seemed to shake herself from a dream, "Oh, sorry, you looked so familiar, have we met?"

"No." Eddie replied, "I'm afraid we have not."

"Ah well." She shrugged, then she dropped her hand to the wheels of her chair, "You can help me get down these stairs." She said, "Or is that too small a task for an adventurer like you?"

"No. I'll help." He offered easily, "But, how exactly?"

"Just keep me from falling over, thank you." She said, and then she nudged the wheels forward, dropping down step after step, awkwardly, but without a hint of worry on her face, until he had to catch the chair and forcibly stop it, otherwise, she would have run him over.

"They really should make you a ramp or something." He commented as he straightened out his coat. She reached down and tucked the blanket back around her legs, then adjusted her shawl as she sat up again. She was wearing a cream-colored silk blouse underneath, with a blue scarf tied around her neck, pinned in place with a white brooch. Quite expensive tastes for a girl that had probably lost a battle against polio.

"No, I don't leave often." She told him, "And I don't return often."

"Ah?"

"Anyway." She said briskly, "I would wish you luck but I can already see you will find what you are looking for. See you."

And then she was gone, bouncing down the three steps that lead to London's streets just as awkwardly as she had the first ones, leaving Eddie to wonder how she managed to get up without someone's help, but instead he told the air, "What an odd girl."

Then he shrugged, climbed the stairs, and entered the cool, dark headquarters, ready for at least an hour of paperwork before he had to head into the sewers. The clerk was a plump young woman, with light brown hair and green tint to her eyes, and she appeared to be somewhat bored, and even the book in front of her could not help her. When Eddie walked up to her, she raised a thin eyebrow and seemed to be torn between two very boring things. She asked, "What can I do for you?"

"I would like to become and adventurer."

"Oh. Sure." She straightened up a bit, and reached for a small notecard, "Well, to start with, I'll need your name and address, and your birthday; it doesn't even have to be your _real_ birthday."

"R-really?"

"No." she said sarcastically, "Most boys your age are working in factories, and our organization thinks that adventuring is just as dangerous."

"Pardon?"

"Hey, you could be _un_-employed." she said, then she peered over the counter to look him over, and said, unimpressed, "Oh, you're rich. Figures."

And then she went back to ignoring him.

It was quite a marvel she still was, Eddie thought to himself as he moved down the counter, and filled out the notecard. Name, Edward Johan Brown. Male. London, England. Age, 16. Birthday May 30 th, 1855. Height, 5"2'. Hair, blonde. Eyes, blue. Weight, 104. Skill: Swordplay.

Then, wondering what her reaction would be, he handed her the card back. She looked at him, then at the card, "You're not one hundred and four. I'm five two and I'm one twenty. Men are supposed to be heavier. You're not one hundred and four pounds."

Eddie did not say a word. She tucked the card away with the other 'B' surnames and looked him square in the eye, "Now, you go into London sewers, and you kill rats."

"Okay."

"And don't just walk to the bar, get a few drinks, and come back. You need proof that you've killed rats. You bring back their tails."

"That totally barbaric!"

"Hey, I asked the last quy for their heads. I want to collect the little skulls and decorate my desk. He never came back."

"Okay." Eddie held up his hands, "Okay! I'll bring the tails."

"Good." She slapped a cloth sack in front of them, "Bring them in this."

"Alright."

"And be sure to stock up on items first, so you don't wind up missing like the last guy."

"Fair enough."

"And be sure someone knows where you are."

Before he could thing, _No, Eddie, you little blighter! You'll leave you're self wide open for mocking!_ He told her, "My Mum—"

"Awww!" He felt his face grow red under her teasing, "How cute!"

"Anyway. How many do I need to kill."

"All of them." She informed him, making quotation marks with her fingers, "As many as you see."

"Okay."

"So?" she asked cheekily, "You ready?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Congratulations!" the clerk smiled. She slapped a small leather book and fountain pen in front of him, "Here's your adventurer's notebook."

Eddie looked at the small red volume, then back at the clerk, who smiled just as brightly.

"You... You spelled Adventurer wrong. [2.]"

"And you should be working in the coal mines with all the other little boys."

* * *

1. it's the 1900's, he's British. He's talking like that.

2. in-game design flaw.

I've never written a purely humor fic before. I think it my inner angst habit showed there for a bit at the beginning, and my inexperience showed at the end. I think it is nice to use this just to unwind a bit. Maybe I'll get serious later. Dunno.


	3. Chapter 2

Soda and Weed.

(Disclaimed.)

Okay, okay, TECHNICALLY Eddie does not have the notebook at this time. My mistake, I'll admit that. Let's just say the clerk wanted to get rid of the faulty books.

Also, I want all of the receptionists/clerks whatever to have really distinct personalities, not just all be snarky, I know the one in Rio de Jenero is going to love to party and New York's is going to be a flapper, because we ARE coming up on the 1920's, but she'll just be weird, because this is like, 1912 or 1916 or something. Oh, and she'll have a little dog. Everyone in New York has little dogs, but not like Texas. Everyone on Texas has big little dogs. Even our Chihuahuas are a little bigger.

* * *

Chapter two:

Eddie shoved his hands in his pocket as he walked out of the adventurer's association, and wondered if he would see the girl in the wheelchair again, but he did not. He shrugged, and knew it was time to head down to the swears, because mock him if you wanted to, he would very much like to be home by dinner.

And oh, would people mock him!

He crossed the Thames and began the long walk to the east end, which was noticeably drabber than the west end or central London, with black soot covering the upper lips of buildings and slipping down the sides like someone had spilt black paint ages ago. The air was rougher here, and it reeked of smog and industry. Eddie took a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his mouth, trying to keep the air he breathed as clean as possible.

How hard could it be, kill twenty or so rats, slice off the tails, bring them back. Rats were small, his sword could make mincemeat out of them in a heartbeat. All he had to do was find the entrance to the sewers. There had to be one around here, somewhere.

Of course, there was actually something horribly, horribly wrong with that plan, and that was that he may know Old Maid Beatrice's garden like the back of his hand, but he did not know the west end. At all. He strolled around, lost and useless, and he knew all eyes were on him, and the gilding of his sword, and they knew he was lost, too. Fortunately, he did know how to use that sword, however gilded.

He wondered on his journey if there were several entrances to the sewers, or just one, and he wondered where that one was, because he was not going to find it on his own. He tried asking around once or twice, but he got strange looks where ever he went, and everyone's eyes seemed to ask him, "What's a high-class boy like you doing here?" But Eddie would not answer. He just walked away in silence.

Eventually, an hour's walk away from the bridge and fairly close to the river, he found a pair of unlabeled metal doors leading down below the city. It was not exactly prime real estate, and he wondered when he looked at the dry sludge covering the walls, and the stairs, if the sewer did not sometimes back up into the streets, a disgusting but real possibility.

There was a little girl standing there, looking around and waiting, and she watched him intently as he came down the stairs towards her. So intent was her stare that he was compelled to ask, "What are you doing here?"

Because she looked like a hawk-eyed sentry, standing there with her messy dark hair and her drab grey dress. Her face was even darkened by soot and dirt.

"I'm waiting." she answered, "For a friend of mine. A mean old rat stole something that belongs to 'im, and 'e went to get it back."

"Oh?"

"But 'e's been gone a long time. I'm startin to worry." She went to great lengths to avoid eye contact. She looked towards the large metal door that lead to the sewers, then back to him, briefly, before tracing an invisible circle with her foot, "Are you going in there?"

"Yes."

"Will you look for him? And bring him back? His name's Pad."

"Of course."

"Then you'll need to know about the flood gates. I've never seen then, but Pad says that's how he gets aroung." She looked up and to the right, a common maneuver for people trying to think of or remember something, "You pull a lever, and a big metal door comes down. It blocks water."

"I see."

"Thank you."

With this information and a second mission he went down the stairs to the metal door to the sewers. He struggled with it a minute, and knew he had gotten off on the wrong foot, because he was just having to fight to open a _bloody door_. But he managed it, and he was able to squeeze through before it slammed shut and caught on his red coattail. He jerked it out, staggered back, taken off-balance and stumbled into a rat.

Funnily enough, he stepped on its tail.

Eddie heard a noise echoing down the sewers the moment he took five steps in. He stopped in his tracks and listened. It was not a rat. He knew rats made noises, of course, but not like this. This was much different. This was almost human. This was like a cough. Curious, and wondering if it was Pad (because that would make finding him very easy) he continued on, watching the dimly lit walk before him and trying not to remind himself that the place smelled like a bloody _sewer_ because then everyone would laugh and call him captain obvious.

And if someone could not handle a little sewage and chase down a few rats, then they really could never be a good adventurer, right?

Of course, the rats were devilishly hard to catch. It was difficult to hit something roughly this size of a foot when it was moving, particularly with something as clumsy as a broadsword. If he could just cut off their tails and pretend he had killed them, he would feel like he was cheating, but he would at least have his license. Of course, that was a horribly cruel thing to do, leave a rat alive without a tail.

So he had to wonder, who had killed all _these_ rats? He did not mind so much, because it was a tail he could freely grab—hey, _something_ had killed them, right? The more he looked around, he saw a trail of them, and a distinct pattern. ost seemed to suffer chest wounds, which he could not see clearly in this light, and he wondered if a cat and left half-eaten corpses, or—

He heard a gunshot and a loud curse. Then, there was nothing more for a while, until the coughing resumed again.

The coughing had died down by the time he reached the first floodgate, and aside from the gush of water he could hear nothing else. Just like the girl had told him, there was a switch, which he pulled, and a thick iron gate descended from the ceiling. Eddie watched it go down slowly and clanking, he could feel the walls shaking from the force of the gears behind them. With a thud and a tremor, the gate was pressing down against the floor and the walk ways, blocking the water—he had to wonder where it went, but he was certain situations like this were accounted for—and he thought, for a moment, that it would be a horrible way to go, being crushed under something like that.

The coughing reached his ears again, seemingly louder and more violent than before. It was accompanied by a gasping breath, then more coughing. Then, gunshots. Three, right in a row. Eddie jumped down into the shallow water below him, getting a thin coat of sludge on his boots, and followed the noise of coughing and gunshots.

There was a room down in the sewers, one that was lit with dim, flickering electric lights. It housed the switchboards and gears for the nearest floodgates. It also housed the cough. And gunshots. One of the bullets ripped pass Eddie and bounced off of the brick wall opposite the doorway. He shouted out in shock and jumped back again, watching the shadows bouncing off the wall instead of entering the room.

There was a boy fighting a small horde of rats on his own, and he must have been the one that had killed all of the rats he had seen. Anyone who could do that _had_ to have good aim, but right now the young man was too busy hacking to shoot strait, or even see, it seemed, because he missed a rat at point blank range and after a rasping breath in, collapsed, a hand to his chest and his eyes glazed over.

Then, the rats saw his weakness and they jumped on him.

And it was then that Eddie realized something. Rats were not above eating something that was still alive.

He ran forwards, swinging his sword half blind because of terror, and half with skill, and cut two rats out of the air. The boy—probably Pad—had regained enough control of his devices to wipe the other two away, but he gasped in pain and Eddie saw that a bit of skin was been bitten off of his thumb as he did so. He staggered to his feet, couched again, and said, "Thanks, gov'na."

"You're Pad, right? Are you okay?"

"'Ow'd you know my name?"

Eddie was not really listening. He had cut another rat from mid-air, and wondered briefly if it was just his imagination, or were they _deliberately_ jumping for his eyes. He had grown up on the west end, so he did not know much about rats, except that they were found in the _west_ end, and some seedier parts of central London.

"N-never mind that." He said. The two were standing back to back now, and he could hardly see for the flickering lights. He only really saw shadows, and every swing of the sword was just a guess. He could be jumping at phantoms. It was pitch black one moment, and only faintly light the next, and he realized that rats were much worse in a big group than they were alone, and all heading straight for his face.

And Pad kept coughing, but he never collapsed again. Eddie heard him stagger once or twice, but did not have time to think about him. The rats just kept coming, and he worried that the light would go out, or that Pad would run out of bullets. They wound up putting their backs to two opposite corners of the room and eventually, the swarm ended, and even the flickering of the light did not seem so bad any more.

"That was close." Eddie panted, "I mean, that was really, _really_ close."

"I never _asked_ fer yer 'elp, Gov'na." Pad was trying to sound composed, but there was a rasp to his voice, and he tried to hold back another cough. He was not too good at it, though, and he managed to hack violently once or twice before fully gaining control of his breathing again, "What's a rich bloke like you doing 'ere, anyhow?"

"I'm going to become an adventurer, I'm supposed to prove I've killed at least twenty rats by cutting off their tails—but that's not really important." He added quickly because he noticed that Pad's attention was elsewhere. Mainly, the exit. "A friend of yours asked me to look for you."

He frowned. Hard, "You rich folk just think this life is a _game_." He spat quietly, "Well, knock yourself out."

"Wait, what about you?"

"I'm fine."

"You were having a _coughing_ fit, old boy. That's hardly fine."

He stopped in his tracks, and then passed Eddie the coldest glare the blonde had ever seen. He stepped back, grimacing and wondered what Pad would use to defeat him, the gun, or his bare hands. He tugged a leather cord around his wrist, and Eddie wondered what purpose it served, then when he snapped it against the inside of his arm, he decided he would rather _not_ know, in all honesty.

He continued walking and he said again, "I'm fine."

Eddie considered following, but knew that some of the rats that were dead had been ones _he_ had killed, and therefore, fair game. He wondered how Pad could easily shoot a rat in mid air with such accuracy, and considered vomiting when he realized he had just cut a tail from only _half_ of a rat. The rest of the rat, and a small metal ball, was splattered all over a corner. True, _he_ had cut a rat in half, but there was just something about guns, and the bloody smears of skin and bone they left that seemed dishonorable.

Pad fired his gun again. Eddie decided to forget about the tails, and assume he needed twenty and he had lost count some time ago. He did not want to stick his hand in an bother counting, and he could hardly imagine why the clerk would, either. Surely she just measured by weight?

He got to his feet and picked his way through the dead horde and followed Pad down the hallway, and he managed to catch up with him. He was standing over a freshly killed rat, leaning on the wall with his eyes closed. He seemed about to sit down and rest in the light—this one did not flicker as much as the others—but he straightened up as soon as he heard Eddie. And he did not look too happy.

"Ya were serious about the tails?"

"Yes."

Pad gave him a once over, and he smirked, "I don't see a knife on ya. Use yer sword for it?"

"Well it's not like you could remove a tail with a gun." Eddie frowned, "Not really..."

Pad raised his eyebrow, drew his gun, and fired, taking a creeping rat's tail clean off in one shot. The rat ran away out of the room and down the passage, squealing, causing all of the other rats too scurry away and hide, and there peeping and sheiks and scratching claws echoed down the absurdly spacious sewer, and into the darkness, as if to summon some other, Lord of Rats. Eddie gaped.

"Too bad." Pad grumbled, "I can't kill it like that."

"You could have left it alive, you know."

"It's a rat. It may _deserve_ a life without a bloody tail, but it will still just breed more rats."

"That's a bit cruel—"

"It's a _rat_."

"—I'm not too horribly fond of killing yet."

"And _I'm_ cruel?" [1.] He asked, "That was just to show you that I _can_. You sure are unprepared." Pad grumbled, taking a pocket knife and opening it. He sliced off the tail of an already-dead rat, then picked up the next nearest dead rat and Eddie noticed that he had a pair of mismatched leather gloves. One was obviously to protect his gun hand, it ended at the wrist the other was padded around the knuckles, and left his fingers free, while extending up his arm as some sort of light protection, should he ever need to throw a punch.

Even he had gloves to protect his hands, but he had never thought he would need a blade other than his sword. And these were a gentleman's gloves, made of white dear skin and lined with silk.

"Yes."

He shrugged and walked away. Eddie knew he should take a hint. He should take his pound of flesh and he should go, but he had told the girl he would bring him back. It had not been a formal command, and he had not promised, but it still felt right. Did she even know he was _sick?_ He seemed to be trying to hide it. How bad was he? Had he just been looking for a place to die?

"There you are you lousy berk."

No. No there was no way that was true. Eddie shook his head and continued following him. He heard a loud rat's cry, and thought for a moment that one might be close by, he looked down, but saw nothing, then he heard loud footsteps, and wondered if Pad was running his way. No. He was not.

A _rat_ was.

A _giant rat._

"Bloody hell!" Eddie screamed, taking a few steps back. The rat rammed into one of the flood gate switches and the gate began to fall. Eddie looked up and saw that it was going to come down right on top of him if he did not do something. He staggered forward, eyes on the rat, and on Pad, who had run around the corner. Once again, he was not pleased to see him.

"I see you've gotten yourself in a spot'o trouble, Gov'na." Pad hollered from the other side of the rat. Eddie thought for a moment that the young man was aiming for _him_, but he kept frozen for a while and the rat focused on Eddie. There was a long, quiet standoff, and Eddie stared down at rat that was—no exaggeration—about as tall as he was. The only command he got from Pad was, "Don't move!" and that had seemed like hours ago.

Then he fired the gun. The bullet bounced off the stone ceiling, then the floor, then the lever, opening the flood gate. The only thing that stopped it rampage was the fact that it permanently damaged the lever's handle, but only cosmetically, not functionally.

"That was _incredible_."

"Consider it payback."

"I thought that was—"

"No! That was to be ridda ya!" He shot back, "I _won't_ be ridda ya, will I?"

"I guess—"

He was interrupted by Pad exclaiming, "It's got me medal."

The Master Rat must have gotten tired of the shouting, because his hissed and reared, and Eddie screamed, "I don't care what it has, we need to kill it before it escapes into London! That thing could eat three people a _day._"

"I'm with ya there." Pad said, aiming at the rat this time, and firing, but the rat ducked so he nearly hit Eddie, who also ducked, but he could have _sworn _the bullet had grazed him. The only remorse or apology he got was a loud swear and a second shot, this time on that hit the rats' paw.

"Just so you know, I hate guns!" Eddie called as he picked himself up and fumbled for his sword, dropping the bag of tails.

"I hate swords." Pad said, "Rich man's weapon."

"F-fair enough." Eddie said, slashing and only cutting halfway through the rat's tail. He swung a second time and cut through its back, but only enough to upset it, not kill it. He had thick fur and skin. They were not going to get it easily.

Of course not. It was a rat the size of a bloody _person._ There was no way any one would believe they killed it unless they brought back the tail and mounted it on the living room wall.

"Pad."

"What?"

"Let's take the tail."

"Why the hell not?" Pad said as he fired the gun and only managed to damage its right forepaw. It still had the left, which it swiped in front of him, tearing his jacket and barely missing his eyes. But it also allowed itself close enough to be punched in the face. The beast went careening into the water, and the two regrouped for a moment, before deciding that there was not enough room on the walkway to fight side-by-side.

No sooner had they put five feet between them, than the rat climbed out of the water, even angrier than before. He lunged for Eddie, and he swung he sword forward. The two collided, and Eddie regretted his choice, because he was covered in blood and god knows what now, and fur wet with _the waste of the greatest city in Europe_ did not exactly suite a red coat.

He staggered away, not even trying to take his sword with him, feeling as if he were about to vomit. The rat followed, hissing and clawing and Eddie took most of the scratches on his arms. It stung. Like the fires of hell. He tripped over his own feet, and the rat was on top of him.

There was a gunshot.

Then a heavy thud.

Then Pad exclaimed, "I did it!"

"W-what?"

"Shot off the tail _and_ killed it!"

Eddie picked himself up, shaking, and looked at Pad, who stood there, proudly holding in his bloody hands the tail of the giant, master rat, and just as he had said. The rat was now dead, tail-less, and laying strewn across the walkway, with a good portion of his head missing. That portion was splattered over the opposite wall and flowing with the rest of London's waste. It was quite a gruesome scene. Too gruesome. Eddie had to cover his eyes again.

"One bullet?"

"Well, you did get 'alf way through."

"This is why I _hate_ guns! What a mess!"

"It's only blood." Pad grumbled. He strode over to it, took back his medallion, and smiled, staring at it for a moment, then he shook himself out of his day dream, and his smile became a smirk. "'ere, 'elp me push the body into the water."

* * *

Smirking and filthy, the two dropped the giant tail onto the clerks desk. She looked at it, and barely batted an eye, then looked at them and shrugged a bit. She reached under the table, and Eddie expected her to pull out another notecard for Pad to fill out himself, but instead she pulled out a cracker bonbon. She held it out, one end in each hand, and then pulled them apart, showering the two of them, and the tail, with confetti, and bringing up a little pouf of smoke between them. One larger piece of paper fluttered down which read 'Congratulations!'

She disposed of the two pieces like nothing had happened. "Still only counts as one."

"What?" Eddie demanded, "Giant rats in the sewers and you don't even care?"

"Now go throw yourselves in the Thames. You're filthy."

* * *

[1.] MORALS!

Had any one noticed, Pad NEVER dropped his H's? Ever? That's like the hallmark of east-end dialiect! Ugh, I'm and English major, not a dialect major, but that still offends me.


	4. Chapter 3

Soda and Weed.

(Disclaimed.)

OMG, auto correct, stop correcting my dropped h's!

* * *

Chapter three:

They had washed off in the Thames, which, Eddie hated to admit, was not exactly _much cleaner_ than the sewers, but it had been fairly decent advice, so far as things that clerk had told him had gone. The two now sat in the pub, feeling and smelling slightly better, except for the scratches, but it was a pub on the west end. No one actually cared.

Pad was drinking strait whiskey, because apparently he was a regular and they allowed it, but the bar tender had taken one look at Eddie, looked at Pad as if he were crazy, and had given him apple juice without even asking. Eddie did not mind so much, after all, he had never consumed alcohol before, and _now_ was probably a bad idea. And what would his mother say?

Pad's medallion now hung around his neck, and Eddie asked casually, "So, what's so special about it?"

"What? This?" he asked, "It... It's all I have left of my mother. I'm sure she has the other 'alf. Or... or '_ad_ it at one point. She might 'ave pawned it." His finger traced the curve of his half and frowned, "Maybe something special will 'appen when we join the pieces together."

"I'm not expert on the matter." Eddie confided, "But my Dad might know something about it."

"Yer old man?"

"He's an adventurer—"

Pad rolled his eyes and took a drink.

"—He's a _good_ one." Eddie added, "He's not like me, and he certainly did not grow up wealthly."

"Married yer mum for money, eh?"

"Yes." Eddie admitted, "And now he's gone missing. We don't know where he was even seen last. He—"

"Probably ran off with some 'ussy."

"Do _not_ talk about my father that way!"

But Pad just ignored him and laughed sardonically, "Parents sure are trouble."

And there was silence again. Eddie let the remark slide off his shoulders and tried to convince himself it was not true. His Dad loved him, and his mother. Maybe he just loved the money, and not them. Maybe. No, no there was no way that was true. If he was having an affair, he would not set the Maverick off to drift. He would _not_ fake his own death.

Would he?

Eddie frowned. He did even _like_ his Father?

Yes! Of course!

No.

No. He did not. He did not hate the man, and he did not wish him dead, and certainly, he was a good son and he respected his father's wishes, but he did not_ love_ him, and Love and Respect are two different things. He respected his father, he did not love him. It seemed like right now all he wanted to do was find the man and punch him in the face.

"Pad." Eddie mumbled, looking at his glass, "I had fun, in the sewers, with you."

"So?"

"Would you like to be my adventuring partner?"

He glanced at the other boy out of the corner of his eye, and he was frowning. He drained his glass, refilled it, and did not say a word.

"Please?"

He was silent for a while, tracing his finger around the glass' rim. He frowned, his eyes fogged over, and Eddie waited patiently, until he eventually said, "Fine."

"Fine? You're agreeing so easily?"

"Ya expected me to say no?"

"No!" Eddie said quickly, "Its nothing like that at all!"

"Well, I knew if I told ya no ya'd pester me with money, power, promises to find me mum... Like ya feel you have to buy off yer friends. Only people like that are the ones that don't 'ave any."

Eddie winced.

"I 'it the nail right on the 'ead there?"

"Yes."

"That's just sad."

"You... You don't me a lot of people when you're a lonely little kid on the west end." Eddie admitted, sweeping his finger along the outside of the glass and picking up the cold droplets of water on his finger, "It's true, I guess."

"Oh, now don't get that pathetic look on ya face, Go'vna!"

Eddie looked up at him, and said, "This is what my face _always_ looks like."

"Yeesh! No! Yer as droopy as a lost dog in a window!"

Eddie tried not to look so dejected. He looked back at his glass and kept silent, until Pad spoke up again, "Don't give me no silent treatment, too!"

"S-sorry."

"This 'adventuring,'" he said after a while, "The pay's good?"

"Once we have a reputation, sure." Eddie shrugged, "The pay's fair enough."

"Any ropes I 'ave to know?" he asked, "'Oops to jump thought?"

"Well, you'll need to be registered, and you'll need to get licensed. I think."

He coughed, turning away and hiding his mouth between his shoulder and the back of his hand. It was not as bad as before, not as deep and rasping, but it did sound painful for him to breathe afterwards. Eddie bit down on his lip to keep from asking, and hesitantly, he reached for his handkerchief, but his hand and his jacket came away from his lips clean, no blood, no phlegm. Nothing.

He cleared his throat and grimaced, then took another shot of whiskey. He let out a breath as if the burn of alcohol soothed the burn of the coughing, held a hand to his throat, blinking several times. Eddie was not sure that made any sense at all, and even then, he was only _seventeen_. He should not be drinking.

Before he got too drunk (because what would the neighbors say?) Eddie took the bottle away, and he wondered if he should reconsider. He did not want his partner to be an alcoholic, but Pad just shrugged it off and muttered, "Well, it's about time I had a drinking buddy."

Eddie frowned at him, "I won't be drinking this."

"Take a swig." Pad grinned, "I dare ya. I bet ya can't."

"Of course I can! Mum will kill me."

He expected to be mocked, but Pad just gave him a peculiar look, like he did not believe him, with his eyes half closed and one eyebrow raised. The look said more than his joking dare ever did, and Eddie was filled with a sudden, incurable curiosity. He looked at the whiskey, then at Pad, then back to the glass bottle, then to his apple juice.

Eddie, with a few misgivings, picked up the bottle and tipped a small amount into his mostly-full glass. It was just a second. It wouldn't kill him, after all. Pad's eyebrow dropped and he rolled his eyes, then he chuckled and shrugged. Eddie, with even _more_ misgivings, picked up the glass and took a quick sip.

It was sweet, because of the apple juice, but it burned because of the whiskey. Frowning, Eddie pushed the bottle glass away, he coughed "Never again."

"Suit yourself."

"I can only imagine how disastrous drinking it strait would be. I'm sixteen. I should not have done that. How does Dad drink that stuff? How do _you_ drink that stuff, old—" he coughed, "Old boy? Great Scott it's like cider from the Devil's Grove."

Pad laughed. "I suppose ya could really do with a spot'o tea now, eh, Gov'na?" The jest was heavily laced with sarcasm.

"Yes."

"Well, if ya can't 'andle even _that_, and if you can't 'andle a rat with its 'ead blown off, you might not be the kind of bloke they want."

"I can handle it! The rat I mean—"

"You nearly threw up!"

"It was _twitching!"_ Eddie insisted, "Besides, you should see the sort of low quality stuff these people produce. They _must_ take what they can get."

"Beg pardon?"

Eddie took the notebook from his pocket and set it down, "It—it's actually pretty funny, really."

Pad reached over and tugged it towards him, so he could get a better look, "They spelled—"

"I know." Eddie replied, "I know."

"I mean, I'm almost illiterate and that is just—"

"Just shoddy workmanship."

"—low class." Pad wrinkled his nose.

They sat at the bar with the notebook between them in awkward silence, until Eddie picked it up again and tucked it away. Once Pad had sobered up a bit, and their clothes had dried, he paid for their drinks, left the bottle, and the two of them walked back to the adventurer's association. It was interesting to note that while they were walking across the bridge, they saw an unfortunate-looking fellow lugging a giant's rat tail with him. The giant rat-tail. It still had bits of confetti clinging to it. He tossed it over the bridge and caught his breath as they walked past, and looked completely repulsed at the stains left on his white shirt.

When they walked into the building, the clerk looked up at them, "Oh, you two again."

"Yes." Eddie replied as he walked towards the counter, "I wanted to know what the procedure for getting a partner registered. He pretty much took the test with me, so—"

She handed him another notecard, exactly the same as the first, "If he can't write, you do it for him."

"It's not like I can't." Pad stepped back before it could touch his hands, "You're handwriting's probably better than mine."

Fair enough, and it was probably true, anyway. Eddie moved away from the mess left by the tail and started writing. Name, Pad. He turned to his companion. "Do you have a last name?"

"Not that I can recall."

He turned to the clerk, "What do I put if—"

"Nothing."

Male. London, England. Age, 17. Birthday—

"When were you born?"

"Eighteen fifty four?"

"Month?" Eddie asked, "Day?" Pad just shrugged "You... You don't even remember what your parents look like, do you?"

"Not really."

Eddie, a little embarrassed, wrote down simply '1854'. Height, 5"6'. Hair, brown. Eyes, brown. Weight, 123. Skill: Firearms. Then, he handed it back to the clerk.

She looked at the card, then at Pad, then at him again, "There is no _way_ he is only one hundred and twenty three pounds, kid." Then, she crossed out what Eddie had written and scrawled '135-140.' She tucked it away, then, she took out _his_ card, remarked, "I'm going to have a _scale_ put in, because I just _know_ you aren't done. You're going to bring in two more, I just know it." and wrote '120-125' when he had written '103'

"'e's a terrible blighter, isn't 'e?" Pad offered with a grin.

"You've been drinking."

He stopped grinning and stepped away from the desk.

"Great." She said, storing his card in the back with the handful of other adventurers that had either aliases or one name, "Well, you two are certainly going to be seeing a lot of me, so I guess now is a good time to tell you my name. It's Bridgette. Don't wear it out. Don't come in here every five minutes looking for a quest. There are Adventure's Associations in all major cities, and just because we wire all missions to all cites does not mean you can be lazy and not go there. You're an adventurer. Travel some. Especially you." She pointed to Eddie, "You need some sun."

"Lovely. Thank you Miss Bridgette."

"I said don't wear it out."

"Very well Miss Bri—"

"And to _keep you_ from wearing it out, I'm going to send you away. A man called 'Evans' stopped by looking for you."

"Really? Fancy that. What did the old boy tell you?"

"Meet him at the airship dock and get out of my hair."

"The airship dock?"

"Seriously? You don't know where that is?" she asked, gaping, "Do you at least know the bow from the port?"

"Don't worry, I know where it is." Pad answered, grabbing Eddie's collar and pulling him away.

"Glad to see someone has some skills. I was beginning to worry."

Eddie followed Pad south until they reached the dock in question. It rang with voices of passengers waiting for commercial flights, the whoops and hollers of sailors, the whipping of propellers, and the roaring of engines. Hammers tapped sharply on metal, and the place smelled of oil and grease and freshly welded metal. And of smoke, of cheaply-prepared food and alcohol and sweat and—dare Eddie say it?—_life. _It was a busy place, a vibrant place. Stewards shouted for a boarding flight and a mass of people carrying baggage nearly swept them away. Eddie had been standing there gaping; Pad cursed and pulled him along, like a dim-witted younger brother.

"So, how do you know this place?" he asked once they were pressed against the wall, watching the river of delighted passengers shuffle past. He hardly heard himself.

"_What?_"

"_So._" Eddie found himself shouting, "_How do you know this place?_"

"Oh!" Pad shouted back, "I take a few jobs 'ere and there." He replied over the din, "Ya take what ya can get when yer desperate. You know 'ow it goes."

"I-I'm sorry."

"It beats digging for coal and—" he turned away and coughed, "Getting the black lung! And I know my way around an airship, for the most part."

"Great, one more thing you'll have to teach me!"

"That'll be the day."

"Edward!"

The two boys turned, and shuffling along at the rear of the throng was Mister Evans. He extended a hand to Eddie, who took it, and he reached for Pad, but he just shoved his hands in his pockets and followed them at a leisurely pace. Someone called his name and he waved, but he did not get sidetracked.

"Well, if you came here that must mean you were admitted to the Adventure's Association."

"Yes. Yes I was."

"Just as expected, that's quite a feat, you know." Mister Evans replied. He looked back again at Pad, who was still following, gun at his thigh, hands in his pocket, hair in his eye. His clothes were patched and a mess and now that he was in bright electric lights he looked like a street urchin. Strange. He had not seemed to out of place before. "Do you know him?"

"Yes." Eddie answered as the three of them broke away from the crowd into the section of the dock that housed private airships, where spaces were rented and ships could be tethered for months for the right price. Eddie saw on ship that was in rusted, dusty condition, and wondered just how long it had been there, but there was not much time to gawk. He had to introduce his friend. "This is Pad, he joined my adventuring party"

Pad extended his hand, realized there was still grime in the creases of his knuckles and dirt under his nails, and did not meet his eyes. Mister Evans looked at it, and raised his hand, but did not take it.

"You've found a partner already, old boy?" he asked, "That's... encouraging."

He looked at Pad's hand in disgust and dropped his hand. Pad crossed his arms and shifted uncomfortably.

"I didn't exactly join." He said gruffly, hiding his hand again, "We were just lookin fer the same thing."

Eddie desided the less they dwelled on that awkward silence, the better, "So any way, Mr. Evans, why did you ask me to come down here?"

"Ah, yes." He replied, "Come along, this way."

The followed him again, Pad looking at the rusty old airship as well for a second before he moved on as well. It was not hard for him to catch up, he took long, smooth strides, and he flicked his hair out of his eye with a little toss of his head. Mister Evans stopped again, this time in front of a bright red airship, with a zeppelin balloon floating up, "Here."

"Wh—what is that?"

"Gilbert's airship." Mister Evans answered slowly, as if he could not believe Eddie had even asked, "It's the maverick, dear boy. After it was found on the Mediterranean Sea a few days ago, I fixed up. There is no need for you to _rent_ a ship when you've got an almost perfect one—fully stocked, too, you boy's won't be running out of provisions anytime soon."

"Almost?" Pad asked.

"The Flight Core's too badly damaged, and we can't fix it here. Of course, if you're looking for Gilbert, this is probably for the best. You won't be able to see him if you're too high up."

"We don't even know where to _start_."

"I just so happen to have a clue for you." Mister Evans answered. At least he was _speaking_ to Pad. Eddie looked away from the ship towards the two of them. Pad was only about two inches taller, and he was certainly much thinner, but he had a great deal more presence. He seemed to be capable of staring anyone down right now, but Mister Evans only seemed to be impressed by that. He cleaned off his glasses and put them back on, clearing his throat, "The last time I met Gilbert he told me he was on his way to Cairo."

Eddie felt cold.

Gilbert had not told _them_ that.

"Cairo?" he exclaimed.

"That's a city in Egypt, right?" Pad asked, mainly for his own confirmation, "If we keep flying south by southeast from London and then cross over the Mediterranean Sea it should be right there."

Eddie wondered how he had even _known_ that if he was so uneducated. He must know more than he let on, sometimes. Maybe he had picked it up around the airship dock. Mister Evans bid them good day and walked away to join the loud crowds at the main part of the dock, leaving the two of them alone. They looked at each other, and Pad seemed to relax at once.

"Pad... What do you know about actually _flying_ an airship?"

He laughed.

* * *

Yeah, I know that conversation doesn't happen in a bar, but, whatever.


	5. Chapter 4

Soda and Weed

(Disclaimed.)

I think it's time for a perspective shift.

* * *

Chapter four:

"I don't understand what's so _funny_." Eddie said as the two walked back through London, "Really, old chum, if there is a laugh to be had right now, I want to be in on it."

Pad stopped laughing for a moment to explain, "Ya can't stand the sight o' gore." he started to count on his fingers, "You didn't even know where the airship dock was, ya don't know how to _fly_ an airship, ya_ fight with an antique_, and... And the sad thing was, ya didn't even know what yer old man's airship looked like."

"He... He didn't even tell us he was headed to Cairo."

His normally pin-straight shoulders slouched and his eyes fogged over. At once, Pad felt sorry for laughing at him. He slowed his pace so the two could walk down the street abreast. He lowered his voice, "Look, are ya _sure_ the blighter is worth it?"

Eddie did not answer. Pad was never the type to assume silence was no, and he never assumed silence was yes, either. Silence was uncertainty. Silence was _silence. _Pad frowned and stopped completely. They had retraced their steps all the way back to the square, and were standing in front of the fountain. Eddie stopped too, his hands were stuffed in his pockets and his eyes were focused on the ground. He blinked furiously and said with a little more fire. "He didn't tell us he was heading to Cairo!"

"Sit down."

Eddie did as he was told and Pad sat down beside him. He was quite for a moment, waiting for Eddie to say something—anything. Pad hated to admit it, but the blond had grown on him. Of course, it was not exactly_ difficult _to get in the softer parts of his heart. He was entirely accustomed to being the older brother of the East End. If the money was good—the money wasn't for him, it was for the others—and if Eddie had the drive, then Pad would follow him.

Pad would have to follow him.

The world would chew him up and spit him back out on his own. And Eddie had grown on him. Though he would in public shrug his shoulders and say, 'oh like a bloody awful fungus.' It was really more of a lost puppy type of curious fondness. Perhaps it could develop in to some sort of long lost little brother type of things. He had a hand full of little brothers, after all. One more could not hurt.

"What would yer Mum say?"

Eddie frowned, "She wouldn't want me to go."

"And yer Dad?"

Eddie bit his lip and Pad knew that there was a special nerve associated with Eddie's Dad—it was so bloody obvious—and he had just hit it.

"I—" he started awkwardly, then he smiled, straightened up, and clenched his hand in a determined fist, "I daresay he's be proud."

Pad thought to himself, 'Well, there is one way to motivate 'im.' But he did not say it.

Eddie looked down at his knees and thought about it for a moment, and then he stood up, "Yes. He'd be proud. Maybe he'd start taking me with him. Do you think so Pad?"

Pad resisted a laugh. That was cute and sad and pathetic and endearing, "Maybe."

Eddie's sudden smile relaxed, "So, why aren't we shoving off right now?"

"Well, best go prepared. I'm goin' to the item shop, you can watcha want."

"I see. Carry on then." Eddie turned on his heel, "I'll go and buy some more suitable clothing—"

"Ya positive ya won't get lost?"

Eddie laughed, "No, I'll be fine. Will you be sure to come back? You won't just abandon me, will you?"

"And be plagued with guilt for the rest a my short life?" Pad fought off the need to cough, "I—" the need of cough won, "An hour and a half... Ah, well, maybe—" he coughed again, "Maybe three, I'll need to say my good-byes. I'll be there."

"Right then. Airship dock in three hours?"

"It's a date." Pad waved him off, "I'll be there."

The two parted ways and Pad made his way back to the East End across the river. He knew it was a bad idea to leave, because at least six kids in the slums depended completely on him (and four more just needed him to watch their backs), but there were others that would help them out if he were to up and vanish, and he was not going to leave without giving the others warning. He went back to the pub first, and walked up to the bartender.

"Who _was_ that kid you were with?" Alphonse asked, cleaning a glass.

"'Is name's Edward Brown, and I'm goin' to be traveling with him fer a while, be sure to pass on the message."

"So, you're a paid escort now?" he joked.

"Ah, can it!" Pad waved him away, "Look, if anyone comes asking fer me, you just tell them I'm in Cairo, or something."

"You will send a telegram over, won't you?" he asked, "Perhaps we'll hang a map above the stage and track you around with tacks and red yarn."

"Sure."

From the pub he went to Clara's drugstore. It was a small place, down by the docks, selling everything from common cold medicine to the more substantial stuff for adventurers. He nodded to Lloyd, who was sweeping the floor, and then to Clara herself, who was wiping down the countertop.

"Thanks for givin 'im the job."

"Oh, it's no trouble."

"You won't fire 'im, will you?"

"Why suddenly ask?" She raised an eyebrow and gave him a hard stare.

He averted his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets, "Well, I'm goin' away for a bit. A long bit, actually. I don't know when I'll be back."

"So, you're getting drawn into the adventuring craze, too?"

"Well, no, it's more like babysitting. He's fifteen and he still fights with a sword. I imagine I'll get dragged into rescuing a princess or something, in addition to his old man."

Clara laughed, "Oh. You must be talking about Edward Brown."

"How'd you hear?"

"Oh, you've met Magi in passing, the one in the wheelchair? She comes by and buys my stock for a friend of hers. She told me. Here, I'd hate to have her tell me you're dead. Have a discount."

He bought the basics, because that was all he could afford at the moment, even with the discount. and picked his way back through the streets of the west end, telling anyone who cared to inquired about him where he was heading, the news would spread pretty fast that way. He ran into Joe, sanding shoes by the river dock, which no one ever used because of the airship, aside from a few tourists and recreational boaters.

"Hey Pad."

"'ey."

"It's just a joke, right, you ain't really leavin, are you?"

Ah, Lloyd must have slipped out and told him.

Pad squatted down beside him, even though he hated the smell of shoe polish. The little boy's fingers were stained with it, "No, I'm leavin."

Joe frowned at him.

"What?" Pad asked, "I'll come back, and I'll bring money each time. I promise."

Joe still frowned.

"Ah, _look_, someone'll look out for ya, I'll make sure of it."

"But 'ow can you? You won't be 'ere."

He stood up and crossed his arm, "I knew sendin' ya to school was a bad idea. Yer too smart now!"

That made him laugh. Pad ruffled his hair, gave half of the money his still had for safekeeping, and left him shining shoes by the dock. On his way back to the main part of town, he ran into the lower class women selling flowers on the streets and he decided it would be best to stop by and see one of them.

Her name was Elisa, and she was about twenty. She dreamed of better things, and Pad knew that if anyone was going anywhere big in their community, it was her. She had looked out for him when he was younger, just like he did for others now. She was binding violets with string as he stood, unnoticed in front of her, his hands in his pockets.

"Oye."

She looked up, her large brown eyes focused on him, "Well, Pad, I 'aven't seen ya in a month. What're you doing' round these parts? Don't ya normally work down on the docks these days."

"I've got a new job." Pad replied, "Escorting a paper-white rich boy around the world."

"What?"

"'E's lookin for his missing father. I'm the savvy untrusting one, s'far as I can tell."

She laughed, "Well, _that_ suits ya."

"Meh." Pad shrugged, "Anyway, I was wonderin' if ya could look after the others fer me, they earn their keep, just make sure they ain't sleepin' on the streets. Ya won't be the only one, mind you, I'll 'ave others, too. Just keep an eye on 'em, call the doctor if they need it."

"But I already do, you know."

Pad coughed.

"You should watch that cough."

"Right, well, thanks."

He talked to a few others about it, all along main street, and when he was done he tracked them down, one by one, and told them that he was leaving, but he did not know how long. He promised that each time he came back he would have money, and if they needed help, they should not be afraid to ask. The youngest was about seven, and the oldest was Eddie's age, and knew enough about being in charge to handle it, of course, she was just one of the ones that was done being under his wing and was making her own way as a street cleaner. She had no idea why he was telling her he was leaving.

"Look out for the others."

"Oh." She blushed and laughed, "Right."

With a little nod, he walked away, and she waved softly, embarrassed with herself. Pad was headed back to the airship docks when someone shouted above him.

"'Eard you're a gigilo now!"

It was Tim. The two of them had a strange, not quite adversary, not quite friend, relationship. There was a jovial clash of personality and will whenever the two were in the same room, that because a truly frightening display if they were in the same room for too long. He was about twenty feet in the air, washing a window and waving down with his rag.

How witty.

"That I am!" Pad hollered back up, "Much better work that yer sorry ass ever did!"

Tim laughed and Pad side stepped to avoid being playfully splashed with cold, soapy water as he rocked on his rig.

"Look out fer mine!" he shouted back up, "I'd look out fer yours."

"'Course."

The with a sharp wave which was really more of a salute, Pad walked away from him. On his way back to the airship dock, he caught sight of the weapons store, and could have kicked himself, but instead he just slapped his forehead. Of course. Ammunition. He would _definitely_ need to buy ammunition for his gun. So he went in, and when he came in the shop keeper smiled broadly, "Ah, you're adventuring partner came by."

"Oh, peachy. What did he do?"

"Already bought your usual purchase. I don't know how you reeled that one in, but good job."

"Well, I'll just take a second order." Pad slapped the money down on the counter,  
"It won't go bad."

"The powder might."

"Well, it will take a while for that."

"Fair enough. Take it."

They made the exchange, and Pad put the ammunition and gunpowder into the bag with the medicines. He went back to the airship dock, then. It was not as crowded now, but it soon would be, because a ship from Paris was pulling into port, still covered with streamers and confetti from its maiden voyage. Probably going for a record or something.

He saw Eddie milling around the dock and starting to talk to sailors, then he seemed to lose the nerve just as fast. Pad watched, and eyebrow raised, as this went on, and he drifted from one to another. Pad eventually grabbed him by the collar, "What's wrong."

"I need someone to help me break into father's airship."

"What?"

"There is no spare key!" Eddie threw his hand up, "I can't get in!"

"Are you _sure_?"

"Well, if I was Gilbert I would leave a key under the mat but it's an airship it does not _have_ a bloody welcome mat, so—"

"Ah." Pad took his flintlock from its holster and held it by the barrel. He took Eddie's forearm and dragged him through the port to the Maverick. He climbed the ladder and hit the window with the corner of the grip. It shattered easily. After that, he put it away, reached inside, and popped the door open. The blond looked on, truly amazed, as Pad invited himself in, then his partner.

"Didn't even leave a spare key?" Pad grumbled more to himself than Eddie. He did not speak his next thought: The blighter was not worth it.

Eddie had heard the remark anyway, and he shrugged, "Oh, he probably did not think much of it. H-he's just so fantastic. He must think he's indestructible."

There was a hint of sarcastic malice in Eddie's voice. His hands were shaking as he walked over to the wheel. It was the round, ornate kind that was found in ground ships. He ran his finger along the curve, frowning to himself. A key was hanging over one of the spokes around the edge. Eddie reached for it, but then noticed that there was a speck of dust on his glove, and he cringed. He rubbed his fingers together to get rid of it, and frowned a bit more. He eventually let it go, and turned back to Pad, or, more specifically, the bag in Pad's arm.

"Just that?"

"'Swat I said I'd get." Pad replied. He set the bag down on the map table and Eddie peered inside it.

His eye widened a bit, but not in shock, most likely in revulsion. He took out what looked like a pack of cigarettes and glared at Pad. Pad stepped back a bit and he knew what Eddie must think of him."That's not tobacco." he defended himself quickly, "It's Mu Leaf. Ya know, or, I suppose ya _don't_. I know it sounds crazy, but it speeds up the 'ealing process, relieves pain, not too bad for stress, either. Pretty addicting, though."

Eddie raised an eyebrow.

"Dragons 'er real."

"Well, when you put it _that_ way." Eddie went back to frowning slightly, he turned the paper package over in his hands, examined the brand name and muttered to himself, "Heal Leaf, what a horribly generic name for this." He opened it and slipped one halfway out with some difficulty, then asked, "So... What do we do, old chum?" He took it out completely and rolled between his fingers, "In the middle of a battle, light one up and pass it around?"

"Yes." Pad answered, "We do exactly that."

Eddie frowned at it, then at him, then back at the joint. He shoved it back in amongst the other ten with his fingertip, as if he did not want to touch it, then he looked at his fingertip and cringed, as he saw that it had left a dark brown stain on his white glove, "Ah, why bother?" he asked himself. He let the package fall back into the bag, reached in again, and asked, "And I suppose this isn't alcoholic?"

"Ah, well you're _close_, of course, you were close last time."

"So, what is it?"

"We don't actually know. Most kids I know just figure it's some kind of glorified soda."

"You don't know what in it and yet you drink it anyway? What is it even for?"

"It just sort of 'elps you ignore the pain of physical injuries, give you a sudden burst of energy." Pad crossed his arms, "What you'd get?"

"Oh, armor." He answered, "Gloves, leather gauntlets, a better coat."

"Smart."

"They're still out on deck, of course. I picked up a few things for you. I knew you would need more bullets, but, well, I don't actually know if it's the right kind. The shopkeeper said he knew you, but he might have just been trying to sell me something—"

"Ah, good, yer already not trustin' people. I'm rubbin of on ya."

Eddie laughed awkwardly.

"But 'e did know me, so, thank you."

"You're welcome, old chum." He went outside, picked up the paper bag with his purchase in it and brought it inside.

"So, we shovin' off now?"

Eddie looked down at his feet, set the bag down, and considered it, "I suppose it couldn't hurt, but it _is_ fairly late, perhaps tomorrow?"

"Fair enough."

"You can stay with me tonight, we've got plenty of room for you." He looked that the broken window, "I don't actually _care_ that its broken, but when we start flying at higher, a broken window could be an issue, and then there is this business of the key."

He picked up what was probably the spare key, placed in plain view on the _inside_, like it was to taunt potential thieves, "I should have more made, one for each of us, at least."

"Okay."

"You don't mind waiting a little longer, do you."

"Me? No, I'm fine. Yer in charge 'ere." He leaned against the wall, "Course, when I say something, you really should listen to me, but fixing the window and getting keys made _is_ smart."

So, he had a brain after all. That was good.

That was actually fantastic because Pad hated to admit it, but he never would have thought about what low pressure would do to them if the interior was not air tight, or having a spare key made. It was less like watching a train slowly wreak now, and a bit more like a kid growing up. He's ditch him when he didn't need him.

"Will you come to dinner?"

"With your family? Oh hell no. I'll just sleep on the ship."

* * *

I honestly never thought I would feel compelled to go this far.

-also, the shops are not selling heal leaf yet, but really, that joke is in the summary, so there is no point in holding it off.


End file.
